


Obsidian

by Biofuel



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Asexual Character, Dubious Ethics, F/M, Fraternization, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Interrogation, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Past Torture, Political Alliances, Prisoner of War, Psychological Trauma, Slow Build, Starvation, enslavement, two bodies one mind
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-02-11 20:41:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2082423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Biofuel/pseuds/Biofuel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is yet early in the war for Cybertron. On one side, a newly promoted Autobot tactician struggles with the burden of his new responsibility. On the other, two brothers fight for survival against all odds. In the middle is Jazz, a wing commander for the neutral resistance, whose capture by the Autobots triggers the events that will put all loyalties to the test.<br/>Meanwhile, one mech is pulling strings behind the scenes...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

In a darkened military hallway, red lights pulsed lethargically- out of sync with the deafening blare of alarm bell. What wasn't wailing sirens and orange-red was sharp bursts of gunfire and streaks of lightening electricity that seemed almost to spring from the blackness without a source. Autobot stun-blasts. A mech could barely hear himself think, much less receive the orders of a commanding officer. Lost in the chaos, a scattering of commandos stumbled frantically after some sign of what to do next.

It was vertigo panic incarnate, and  _he_  was supposed to be the one in charge.

_Commander J-26! J-26, what are your orders?_

Jazz was better off than many of his comrades. He had offlined his own audio receptors moments after the droning had begun- a blade to each panel. Damages could be repaired, mistakes made in the heat of desperation would cost lives he couldn't afford to lose at this point of the war. Warm, sticky energon slid down the left half of his visor as he answered the comm.

_This is J-26 to wing A. Wing A, have you cut power to waste receptor 6?_

There was no response. He could see the Autobot soldiers now- firing low-level blasts at his scattered wing-troop as they retreated.  _Frag._

_Wing A commander G-13, have you cut power to waste receptor 6?_

_This is G-12 to J-26, Wing commander G-13 has been deactivated. I am acting commander. We have cut power. We are sustaining-_

The comm line fizzled out suddenly and without warning as acting commander G-12 joined his leader. It was unlikely Wing A had survived the mission. There would be no time to mourn until they returned to base- they had better fragging complete the mission after such losses, but the mission was pointless if there were no mechs left at the end of it.

_Second in command J-26 to all surviving wing units, pull back. retreat to the waste processing panel on the corner of hall 4. Exit through exterior panel 43-_

He paused to dodge a plasma blast from a large blue 'bot, retaliating with a terminal slash to the mech's cerebral fuel line.

_-And meet up with cover team D. Return to base from there, do not wait until appointed time. Do you understand?_

A pitifully small chorus of pained  _Affirmative'_ s chanted back. They should never have signed on for this raid.

_Frag this war,_  Jazz snarled, hefting an energon-drenched corpse off the catwalk-  _Friend or enemy, dead was dead and they had might as well be useful_ \- and used it as a sheild when acid pellets began to hail his way. As the 'bot pressed forwards he was relieved to see a handful of survivors escaping fire. There was no guarantee they'd make it home, but that they had made it this far was grimly heartening.

The hope generated by the fortune of his comrades was enough distraction needed for an enemy pellet to make contact with his knee joint, successfully toppling the silver commando at last.

Burning, paralyzing agony flared up the entire right half of his body.

Acid pellets were vicious in that they had a nasty habit of eating away through layers of armor down to and through a 'tronian's protoform. Worse still would be if it came in contact with liquids contaminants.

Energon was no doubt the lifeblood of Cybertron, but never had it been denied that it had a cruel habit of igniting.

The decision barely required a thought. The entire leg was hacked off at mid-thigh.

_Better to deactivate from sytem drain than explosion._

The agony now no less intense, Jazz struggled to reinitiate a comm line.

_J-26 to Wings A, B, D, K. Return to base NOW. Do not return contact._

_Primus be with you,_ he tacked on at the last second, just before wiping all frequencies from his memory core.

And then all was still.

Red lights dimmed. Backup generators kicked in.

He was in a white corridor, surrounded by a spatter paint melee of metal and wetly shining pink and blue. The silence would be incredible if he weren't deaf already.

The second in command was alone, save for the remains of comrades and strangers alike.

He lay on the chassis of a small orange two-wheeler. Not one of his, but similar in frame o one of the younger ones back at base. Maybe they had known each other. Maybe not. Did it matter at this point?

Probably not.

_Systems at 12%. Entering stasis now._

Whatever.

Spots flared over weary yellow optics. The last thing he saw before losing system control was the approach of several grey war builds. They were probably here for the survivors. Yes, a medic was with them. Maybe two? His processor wasn't functioning.

At least he could escape this damn war now, though. That was a plus, despite all else.

And let the unmaker take him, but escape was all he cared for now.

Frag them all.


	2. Chapter 2

Jazz onlined fragmentally over the next stretch of time. He shouldn't have, but he had. Perhaps Primus had it in for him. Perhaps deeply ingrained battle protocols were fighting with total shutdown for a grand finale. It didn't really matter to him. He wasn't thinking right.

He wasn't sure how long it had been between awakenings. Frag, they hadn't really been awakenings so much as brief, shattered flashes of vibrations and images. Like sinking deep into an oil pool, flickers of artificial light glancing over his visor in an opulent dance. It was calm. Soothing. Detached.

The first time- Maybe? Perhaps just the first he could remember- there had been a floor, and a ceiling. He wasn't sure which had been which. Dragging- he had been dragged. Half-carried, light shining up from white halos. Splatters of phosphorescent hot pink trailed ahead, in front, behind. His spatial processing net had been long since slagged, so he couldn't really tell if he was coming or going. Grey, scuffed heels stamped by his servo. Back and forth, stomp stomp stomp. He could feel the stomp. Maybe they'd stomp on his digits.

Stomp.

Stomp.

Stomp.

Stomp.

Stomp.

_One-two, one-two, one-two-one._

He couldn't remember shutting down again.

Heat. Burning heat. Spinning? Was he spinning? No, the world was pulling sideways- Jazz was on a table. A long, long table, covered in limbs and chassis- The pit? Hot, hot, hot. His dermals were going to fry- get away, get away from the heat.

No, it wasn't that bad. He wanted to recharge. Frag, he was so drained.

_One-two, one-two, one-two-one._

But no, no. Now it was painful. No, he had to  _move,_  and fragging  _pit_  his body didn't want to, but somehow the universe tipped again and he was- His helm. His helm was bent forwards and he was stuck to the ceiling. Suddenly the ceiling was the wall, and then it was the floor, and then the wall again- In a box, glued by his neck, tumbling- And a stomp-stomp-stomp he could feel in his plating.

_Get up, get up,_  the mech told himself, but his knees wouldn't brace and he kept tipping over. Dragging himself inches at a time with blunt digits.

Suddenly he was being carried again, looking down at heels.

_Different colour,_  he noticed.  _Lighter grey, and rusted at the seams._

Neon droplets. One-two, one-two. The stomping was faster. Stomp-stomp-stomp-stomp-stomp,  _onetwoone, onetwoone._

Boomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboom.

Did he purge, or was that energon spilling out of his intakes?

A bigger splotch of glow ran away from him, following all the other pretty spots.

Jazz watched it go, saddened. The pink was so pretty. Maybe if he watched, another big one would appear.

Boomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboom.

Grey floors. Neon spots.

_Spots don't land on the cracks!_

No, wait. They did. There was one.

_Dissapointing._

Then there was a doorway, and he must have shut down for awhile longer.

Falling. Falling out of his berth. No, that would hurt-  _Stop it!_

He tried to brace his arms, but they weren't functioning. Someone grabbed him. Lots of servos. Nonononono. Tipping, tipping, laying on his side. Wet and warm spilling out his intakes again.  _I'm overcharged._  A faceplate.

Whirling online in a dark room.

For a moment, he was still in a red hallway with flashing sirens and dying mechs.

For that one moment, he was laying on the ground about to offline, and his weapons weren't functioning.

He was going to die if they didn't fragging online  _this pit-fragging klik._

Instead of a hail of gunfire, the gears of his shoulder panels spun with a tight, grinding crunch that almost threatened to pop his plating.

Then Jazz snapped into a very quiet reality.

A glance down showed the mech to be sitting ramrod straight up on a flat floor-berth, and a look up revealed the berth to be located within a holding cell.

From the shadows of the adjacent room emerged a slender, quick-build warmech who glared at Jazz in disdain, obvious even through the carefully maintained blankness of his faceplate.

He would have been handsome, maybe even desirable, if that faceplate didn't have such an ugly expression on it.

_Bad guy._

The mech's bared denta rumbled something towards the prisoner, but it seemed the commando's audials were still scrap despite other various repairs that had taken place since the battle.

It looked like he was saying "Let towns haggig gone".

Assessing the context of the situation, Jazz assumed the mech wanted him to lower his arms and maintain a submissive posture.

Like slag. He wouldn't go out of his way to look threatening, but he wasn't going all the way without a fight.

Perhaps looking harmless would be useful though, he thought. K _eep them thinking I'm no threat, get their guard down._

Still sitting, the mech lowered his arms and dipped his helm respectfully.

It seemed that it was the wrong move, however, as the warden stomped closer and repeated the first motions, adding on what appeared to be "Core ha he well gum hithare sand bake ew."

_Bake ew. Make you? Core-ha-he- Or I-E. Or I make you?_

Was he supposed to get up?

Cautiously, he swung his lower body off the side of the mat. Frag, he still only had one leg. Did the guardsmech know...? Was this some cruel joke?  _Stay passive._

**"My left pede ain't there."**

Without his audials, his voice hummed a dull vibration into his helm. He had the feeling he was talking too loudly.

The grey mech by the bars was shouting imperceptibly now, gesturing with a stun-sun in his impatience.

Alright, if that's the game they were going to play, he might as well try for a hop.

Slowly, Jazz pushed lead limbs off the ground and forced his struts upright. He wobbled for a moment, stabilizing, and then tipped over onto his side.

His helm hit the ground with a solid motion, and then there was static.  _Like being overcharged in a rainstorm,_  his processors supplied.

And now there were hands on his back, gripping the plate between his processors and his protective spinal plating, and like frag he wasn't going to do something about the damned digits being so close to his outer nervous circuits.

Jazz knew how to scrap with a mech, but it as clear that he was at an incredible disadvantage.

All he could really do was buck around and grab for silver ankle joints until an unseen object slammed his faceplates into the floor.

Floor, floor, ceiling, wall, pain in his joints, and a flare of warnings from his HUD before a buzzing electrical shot to the ventral plating and he was falling again.

Then he was on his back again, staring immobilized at a grey ceiling.

_Déja-vu._

A new face appeared in his line of vision, white and red medical grade paint and a plain visor obscuring the lower half.

The figure waved for his attention, raising a glowing pad when his optics confirmed he was paying attention.

_'Stay down'._

Oh. Friendly.

He nodded slightly to acknowledge the order.

His tanks churned a warning.

_What's happening?_  He wanted to ask, but the attendant denied his gestural request to hold the writing tablet.

The neutral lifted an arm to tap at the side of his helm.

_Are you going to fix these?_

It would ordinarily be absurd to expect the enemy to repair self-inflicted damage done in the act of raiding precious resources, but as they had seen fit to keep him alive and relatively safe the yellow-optic'd mech figured he'd see if he could capitalize on the situation.

The medic flinched at the sudden movement and stepped back, but otherwise withheld response.

_'I'm going to check on your internal repairs'_ , the pad read. Well well, wasn't this a chatty 'bot.

_Ah yes, I'm doing well. Got a limb missing and I'm deaf as a lump of slag, stuck in a box in the middle of frag-knows-where, but nothing out of the ordinary. How's Tricks?_

He continued the sardonic inner dialogue right up until the medibot began tugging his plating apart at the center seam, pinching sensitive cords between the shifting metal.

_Frag._  He winced in discomfort.  _Didn't even buy a mech a drink._

And wait, when had he sustained internal damage? The mech looked down.

Black, carbon-dusted charring.

Huh.  _Holy frag._

The medic noticed his patient leaning down and roughly pushed him back down by the forehead.

Thunk- _Fzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzxxzzzzzzzzzzxzzzzxzzxz._

Silence.

_I'm probably in shock,_  he noted distantly. The neutral could feel tugging and cutting around his midsection, but it was distant.

_Disassociation,_  his mind supplied.  _Removing oneself from the situation._  His current place in reality hadn't sunk in yet, which is why he wasn't glitching out just yet.

It was bound to happen though, he noted matter-of-factly.

He was at the mercy of a powerful enemy in the middle of a brutal war with no hope of rescue. He had information on a notoriously resilient third faction that functioned as a nuisance to both Decepticon and Autobot forces alike, and holy fragging pit he had better thank his lucky fragging stars he'd gone down by the 'bots instead of the 'cons. His life was essentially over at this point, and if he were processing at full capacity he'd be climbing the walls.

It was weirdly calm.

On the surface, at least. There was definitely something hysterical and deadly bubbling up from below. The kind of crazy he'd experienced before during street fights and battle scraps. He could recognize a snapping mind.

_Slag's gonna hit the fan_.

A white servo was waving over his Feild of vision.

He was trying to keep still.

It was distracting.

His own servo lifted without his consent and ripped it off.

_Whoopsie._


	3. Chapter 3

Prowl was in some deep slag.

Not exactly how he would have phrased it, had he said anything. And he wouldn't have sympathetically slapped a commanding officer on the back while doing so, either. But that was what Ironhide had said and done, and to be perfectly honest with himself the head tactician likely couldn't find a more apt way to put it.

Prowl was in some deep slag.

Three joors in to the Prime's return to base, and there had been a complete security breach. He didn't yet have confirmation on whether the perpetrators had been Decepticon raiders or civilian commandos, but as of yet all signs pointed to an incredibly well-planned infiltration.

As many as four possible groups of unnamed, sensor-cloaked mechs had come up through the waste pipes, run through to two of the purposely scattered energon stores, and almost made it Oback out through the incinerators after cutting ignition lines by the time Autobot forces had arrived.

If signs of the breach hadn't been detected during a routine hall scan, he would be tempted to believe that it had been an inside job.

Red alert was in the process of a nervous breakdown, and with five recorded Autobot fatalities, seven Autobot casualties, nine enemy fatalities, and three enemies injured on his servos Ratchet wasn't too far behind a mental break as well.

Prime had quickly been escorted off-base to a secure facility until further notice, leaving Prowl in charge to deal with the fallout.

_"Deep slag", indeed._

"With all due respect, may I say I do not envy your position, sir," one soldier commented.

Unwelcome as the comment may have been, he had been inclined to wearily agree. This would require he interrogate the three still-functioning enemy mechs for information relating to their intentions, as well as initiate a full-base inspection for planted devices and unauthorized monitoring equipment. Then he'd have to delegate the construction of a new comm code to one of the 'bots under Perceptor's command, which would doubtless instigate a vorn-long back and forth over details and redundant security measures. Wheeljack would take the opportunity to upgrade system functions and install preventative tech into the waste systems, which would doubtlessly combust at some point and leave First Aid to fuss over whomever was damaged in the process so that Ratchet could take five kliks to refuel and recharge in between disasters.

Red Alert would develop a secondary nervous glitch.

_First, check with detained mechs to make sure there isn't a greater immediate threat on the way._

_Send tactical to record any new variables introduced._

_Warn construction bots of possible explosions. Send out a memo reminding of the importance of safety gear and the partnering system._

_Make sure medical is as stocked as possible._

_Ask Wheeljack about defensive tech before he forgets to seek proper authorization._

_Have lower ranking mechs move waste receptacle openings and flammable materials further apart._

_Have someone calm the mechs in Security._

_Detail full report and contact the Prime as soon as conditions are_  secure.

Actually, perhaps first he should put emergency first responders on circulating break shifts so that they could rest up. They'd probably be very busy over the next while.

He already had the better part of the safety awareness memo filed on a private comm line by the time he left his office, which was exactly the same moment he received a ping from Ratchet that they were now down to six autobot casualties, two of the detainees had succumbed to injury and were on their way to temporary storage, and Weldwire had just been attacked by the remaining prisoner and was on his way back to medical on a stretcher.

_::Fragger didn't follow security protocol,::_  the CMO grumbled,  _::So keep your concern to yourself.::_

_::And the remaining injured?::_  he inquired, ignoring the bot's remark. The mech knew very well he had little sympathy to spare for mechs that maintained such preventable injuries.

_::Stable,::_  The medic huffed back.  _::I'm ordering three joors light duty for the lot of them. Follow-up detail and maintenance checks are noted on their rosters. Five security responders and one unlucky maintainence 'bot.::_

_::Noted. Thank you, Ratchet.::_

_::Ratchet out.::_

Prowl filed away all relevant information and continued on his way to the lower holding level of the base.

_::Shiftshade, this is Acting Command Officer Prowl. Report.::_

_::Shiftshade here, sir. Weldwire got slagged pretty bad. Lost a servo and some chest plating, leaked out something awful. He's good now, but we had to stun the prisoner. He's a glitched mech. Haven't been able to get much out of him, but he's uncooperative and resistive to command.::_

Oh, fantastic. The berserker battle-builds were practically useless for informative purposes. Openly violent ones less so.

_::Is he still offline?::_

_::No, sir,::_  replied the warden. : _:He booted up a few kliks ago, and he's not happy to be here. We got the restraints on him and he ain't putting up a fight, but none of my mechs like the look of him.::_

_::Is he displaying threatening or aggressive postures?::_

_::No sir, he ain't even all that big. Nice build, too. But like I said, he's a glitched mech.::_

The tactician vented slowly.

_::I'm approximately five kliks from your location.::_

_::Acknowledged. Good luck, sir. Shiftshade out.::_

The line clicked shut, and Prowl allowed his doorwings to flex slightly under the stress. This joor just seemed to keep getting longer, didn't it?

* * *

It wasn't often Jazz onlined with his chassis sore and his servos chained above his head and wasn't happy about it.

It wasn't often he didn't remember how he went offline either, but it seemed like that was becoming a normal thing now too.

Which usually would have earned an amused smirk, but his wrist joints were wearing down and the constant online-offline pattern was starting to piss him off.

He tapped the back of his helm against the wall behind him, somewhat half-aware of the sharp burst of static that came with the contact.

Fzxtt-fzxtt-fzxtt.

_Boring._

If he wasn't so pleased to be functioning, he'd be despairing of the total inactivity that came with it.

Actually, as the survival programs were settling down, his remaining limbs were starting to twitch and jitter. He needed action, something to react to. There were downsides to be a quick-thinking mech, and the base coding that kept him alive in a fight was certainly doing nothing to keep him sane now.

Somebot had told him- a long while ago, he couldn't quite remember when- that some mecha could sit and keep themselves amused for joors on end, and he was not one of those mecha.

It hadn't really been an issue until now.

War didn't leave a lot of openings for R'n'R.

What would he do after the war?

If there was a Him and an After War.

He'd need a function that didn't interfere with his base coding. Something fast-paced, where he could meet new mecha and learn on the go.

_Something with music._

He had always loved music. He still sang sometimes, quietly, to himself. Little clips of old-Cybertron pop music, bars of instrumental melodies and whatever he couldn't remember the words for.

Vos always had some of the best music, back before it's fall. He had been a much younger mech when the Seekers had joined the war.

He hummed a fragment of a popular Vosnian club tune as it came to him, and he filled in the gaps in his memory with whatever felt nice. Part of him didn't want to accidentally sing too loudly in case somebot heard and came to check on the prisoner, and the another figured that if he was alarming anybody then at least he'd get something better to do.

Besides, the vibrations were soothing to his fizzling receptors.

It didn't last.

Soon enough he was bored again, rebellious processors refusing to latch on to a single line of thought long enough to pass the time until-

_Until what?_  Until he was examined, questioned, terminated and used for spare parts?

Yeah, that was worth the fragging wait.

You'd think if they were planning on terminating him they'd at least have the curtesy to do it in a timely manner.

It was rude, really.

He vented harshly.

_Damned Autobots. Damned war. Damned slagging Primes and their games ._

And right at that moment as if listening for his cue, a fragging Messenger of Primus Himself stepped into optical range.

_Holy slag, mech._

* * *

The tactician had not been expecting the mech in front of him. He was not prepared for a mid-sized, mangled frame of once-was slick and glossy white and grey paint. A mercenary type, maybe. A pit fighter build at the very least. This mech looked more like a bouncer than a berserker. By the dim glow of his yellow optics behind the visor, it was amazing he even had enough energon in his systems to prove a threat. It was difficult to believe that this was a mecha who had joined a team of well-known raiders across the barren landscape to ransack a high-profile military base.

The set of shackles holding the mech's servos to the ceiling seemed almost close to overkill.

And yet...

Prowl could almost sense the air of something dangerous around the mecha, and that was enough to kelp himself on his guard.

It was something in those yellow optics.

The dim honeyed visor in question was looking up expectantly as he was considered, sizing the newcomer in turn.

Prowl frowned, raising his note tablet in his arms. He didn't like this mech, and the sooner he had what he needed was the sooner he could carry on with his work.

"Designation?"

The smaller mech continued to stare, a blank expression on a plain face.

His frown deepened.

"Unknown intruder, state your designation."

Nothing.

Resistive tactics. Prowl hated resistive tactics. They were tiresome, and only really served to slow the process.

"Unknown intruder. You are in Autobot custody. You are being charged with organized and premeditated grand theft, and are responsible for an unknown number of Autobot casualties. You are not in a posi-"

**"Ah're ya almost done?,"**  came the unexpected interruption.  **"'Cause I ain't got a clue what the frag y're sayin'."**

The 'bot was cute when he was angry. Well. 'Cute'. Maybe the word was closer to 'ridiculously fragging hot'. First thing Jazz knew about the mech, and was that he was ridiculously fragging hot when he was angry.

When he had walked in, jazz hadn't recognized the enforcer-regulation markings, but damn if they weren't fine on a frame like that. All wide, powerful, hips doorwings and chest plates, all in white and shiny black lining.

_Praxian._

Ticked off at him.

Damn. Fine as frag and he couldn't touch.

The mech was chattering off something at him, but slag if he knew what he was saying.

Maybe he should just wait it out, keep listening until tall, steel, and grumpy figured out he hadn't had his audials repaired yet. Did he even know they were scrapped? Probably not.

Primus, if they had a bad comm network. Details like that were important information for a bot in his position.

But nope, his fickle mind rejected the prospect of further inactivity over the temptation of potential action and he was talking before he noticed his mouth was moving.

"... Ah ain't got a clue what the frag y're sayin'."

He was expecting disbelief, distrust, violence. Every mech knew that Autobots were softer than 'Cons, but only a fool would go so far as to claim that they were pacifists. Nowadays, every mech had their own dirty little secrets, and he wasn't in much of a position to be naive. He didn't know what kind of 'bot he was dealing with.

Instead of lashing out, however, the Autobot simply typed something out on his noteboard and held it up for him to see.

_"Have you not been repaired?"_

Huh. Rational. Annoyed, but nothing he couldn't work with.

_Thank the Primes._

"Ah'm functioning. Although Ah assume Ah'm not exactly yer highest priority ah' the mo."

He grinned upwards.

"It seems yer not the best host, eitha."

The pad was taken away, and then returned quickly. Fast typist. Probably spent time filing documents in... Well, a scientist wouldn't be down with him unless they had something nasty planned. A medic would be down first as well, but he'd already fudged that one, hadn't he? Head of security might stop by. Or central command. He'd guess Inquisitor or Psychologist, but those functions required expert social skills and a friendly act this guy wasn't putting on. Maybe Logistics, then.

_"It is socially expected for a guest to knock and introduce themselves before entering the host's facilities. By logical sequence, you are more a bad guest than I a bad host. What is your designation?"_

Ah, so he  _was_  central command.

"Ladies first."

Ah, there was a tic. Likely wasn't used to back talk. Commanding officer, then. Fairly high in the ranks, but none too patient with new recruits. Enforcer type obviously, but likely didn't see a reason to repaint when his previous function was terminated. Expects those around him to be up to date on recent events, either nostalgic or very very practical in the use of resources. Probably the latter, Jazz decided. Scuffs on the black paint of his pedes. Not careless, but not the symptom of an overly sentimental piece of work.

Tap tap tap on the screen.

_"My designation is Prowl."_

Prowl. Old designation, picked for undercover and patrol. Probably quiet, patient. He'd bet the mech liked a challenge, thought well under pressure of the moment. If he had credits to gamble...

_Sounds like we've got a Tactical officer in our servos._

That was perfect.

"Ah'm Jazz," he returned pleasantly, nodding his head. The movement pulled on his arms, and he held in a groan at a metal chink that wedged itself between his plates. Frag, his arms were going to pop off at some point.

"How can Ah help you, mah mech?"

* * *

Prowl's struts tightened. That offer hadn't been the offer of a genuinely cooperative mech. This 'Jazz', if it was indeed his designation, wasn't a scared mech looking for an easy out. He was smart, and smart meant that Prowl would have to be very careful with what information he received.

Fortunately, he was also arrogant. Only time and work would tell how much of that was earned and how much was empty.

A thrill of pleased static charged through his processor despite himself. He would deny it, even to himself, but deep down it was.. Something close to enjoyable, to have a criminal to pick apart.

If the fact at hand wasn't that he had good mechs dead to account for, maybe he'd take the time to feel something about it.

But this was wartime, he was on the job, and they had lost time numbers and fuel that could have gone to fighting for the cause.

Now was the time to be harsh and calculating, not amused.

He erased his previous note, and began a new one. This would be moving much faster if the prisoner could actually hear him, but he wasn't about to send in another medic to deal with the issue until he was sure there wouldn't be another incident.

First things first, he had to ensure the safety of the mechs under his watch.

"You could start by telling me whether or not you have compromised my base."

Jazz's grin widened. Shredded and burned from the chassis down, covered in pink and blue and smiling like the the Unmaker Himself, Prowl was finally starting to realize his guard's tentative regard towards what Shiftshade had called a 'Glitched Mech'.

**"Ah'd say it's more a matter of what an' where, Prowler mah mech."**

Prowl's comm pinged rapidly.

_::Sir, we've got a problem on the main deck.::_

_::There's been an explosion on the main deck, sir!::_

_::Requesting orders, sir!::_

Jazz looked to Prowl's comm panel knowingly.

**"Ah see you have some work tah get to."**

 


	4. Chapter 4

Looking back, Prowl's whole meeting with the prisoner had probably begun to flounder somewhere during the introductions. It made his processors churn, the absolute lack of caution he'd thrown into the encounter.

The list of things he'd done wrong was boggling.

He shouldn't have gone in to begin with. He should have delegated the task to someone better suited- Gaslight, perhaps. Or Clamp. He himself should have been with the sweep crew, making sure all possible hiding spaces were clear. Or even in the command centre- Anywhere  _but_  the brig, really.

_Like making sure all infiltrated corridors were immediately inspected upon clearance.._

Instead, he had been wasting time with a job far below his assigned rank while one of their briefing rooms caught fire.

_At least it had unoccupied at the time,_ he reminded himself.  _Otherwise, results would have been catastrophic._

The acting commander was then jolted out of his thoughts when an unnamed response mech leaped past him, aiming to smother a trail of carbon vapor that had been stealthily crawling up a wall below his notice.

Frag, what else could've gone wrong that cycle?

A small, secondary blast went off down the corridor, and mechs were running after it before Prowl even gave the comm command. Someone hit a button, and yellow lights began flashing a floor-wide evacuation warning, signaling in turn for a jumbled melee of non-operational mecha to flee the premises.

_Where were these detonators?_ They have to be placed in spec _\- No_. He stopped that line of thought. They didn't have the data, and he was going to have a crash if he tried to figure it out by himself, and Ironhide would doubtless smash some helms if he became frustrated during command-

_Ex-vent, in-vent. Cool the systems down_.

His fans soundlessly began to churn, seeking to preemptively extinguish the warnings of a migraine.

Frag, he was in need of recharge.

It was unfortunate he would not have time for an adequate defrag in the near future.

_::Shiftshade, this is Acting Commander Prowl.::_

_::Copy commander, Shiftshade here,::_  came the immediate reply. The brig patrol commander must have been expecting contact.

_::Small-grade detonation devices were planted during the earlier raid,::_  the second briefed shortly.  _::The sweep crew needs to know where and how many, before somebody gets terminated.::_

There was a short pause as the brisket received his message.

_::Understood, sir.::_

_::Prowl out.::_

He grimaced as he cut the line, and reached up to pinch the bridge of his olfactory duct.

_This was going to complicate things._

Meanwhile, far both below and away from the Autobot stronghold, a very different string was beginning to unravel.

* * *

Pax Alpha was never a very big city. It wasn't built for numbers or strength. It wasn't very popular, either. Iacon had it's crystal gardens, and Vos had it's voluminous spire-tipped towers, but Pax… Pax was just Pax. It was old, and old was all it would ever be.

The sewer-tunnels of Pax's central underground were, most likely, the only notable trait of the relatively rural area. Deep and winding, the tunnels below had become a haven for many over the course of it's existence, and in it's use in the war it had seen civilization become warped and mutated in it's struggle to survive it's destruction. Once a single community of confused, wandering refugees from above, those that now remained had become ruthless, hardened by their hardships and reinforced in their tenacity.

Gangs had inevitably broken out over time; as feuds had spread and resources had grown scarce, a new world had begun to tunnel through the skin of the old like a parasite- A world within a city, a battle within a war. In it's death, Pax Alpha's depths had grown a new life.

Now, strut-deep within a long-since abandoned leakage duct, Kickstart was cursing his place in that life..

The world was shot, his wheels were sore, and the mission had been a catastrophe, plain and simple. Those were the facts.

There was nothing wrong with the plan, no flaw in it's execution,- The simple matter was that not every factor could be accounted for, and a single variable could shatter even the best of plans.

The small mech sputtered as a thoughtless movement sent slick, oily fluids up into his vents.

_Frag._

Far away, something skittered in the darkness. The ebb and flow of the sewer filth could be heard from every direction, dripping from unseen corners and nooks with no tangible destination in mind.

The single, small two-wheeler shuddered as an unusually solid ribbon of unknown substance slithered unpleasantly between his armor, catching on a spire.

He brushed it off hurriedly and continued on his way, deep, deep below.

Time passed slowly in the dark. He couldn't honestly tell whether it's been a joor or a cycle when he finally came to an access portal.

The light provided by his optics was limited, but with a little work he was able to make out a thin ring of a different material making up a small portion of the ceiling above the corroded door.

From here, he went up again.

It took some struggle to get the rest of the way through to the antechamber, all through gas pipes and oxidized hatches. When he finally dropped down at the checkpoint, two mechs were waiting impatiently.

"You're late," one intoned deeply. No other greeting is offered; he'd taken this route often enough to be recognized. Kickstart was wise enough to keep his own retort quiet.

"There were complications," he provided. "Wings A and D suffered severe damage during the raid; they've regrouped for now; Wing K is with them, they're taking shifts with B for watch of the escape ways until the searches settle down.

"Commander J-26 is unaccounted for, alongside G-4 and F-19," he added. "G-12, G-13, A-12, and F-17 are confirmed terminated; nine more are assumed but unconfirmed."

"That's Grandstand and Fins out, and Growl, Gem, Axel, and Faq down," The second guard grunted bitterly.

" _And_ The Commander."

"Tripwire ain't gonna be happy."

"It's not my job to make him happy."

The large mech grunted again, waving him off.

"You get down to the pit, drink what you can and get some recharge. We'll sign you off."

Kickstart only nodded, honestly too weary and clogged up to give a damn. He'd seen the supplies the mission had gathered; he saw how desperate their mechs were for fuel and medical supplies. The mission hadn't paid off.

That was it, though. What else could he do? He was the messenger, not a frontliner. That had been off the table since he'd lost his left arm in the tunnel collapse; his days storming bases were over, at least until they finally got  _truly_ desperate.

_Later rather than sooner,_  he prayed.

He wasn't sure who he was praying to, exactly, but he hoped they were someone with a little strength to their name. Primus was one he'd given up on long ago. During the first strikes.

_Jupiter,_  he thought out, feeling the glyphs slide over in his mind.

_Little, tiny Jupiter._

Feeling a familiar sensation creep into his spark, the two-wheeler shook his helm.

No. There wasn't enough high-grade left on that rock to drown in. Not that night.

Alone again in the alcoves, Kickstart clicked open his comm. link to a code he'd only ever used before once, to a mech whose name he'd never even heard aloud.

_::It's set,::_ he pinged.  _::Contact me when you need more.::_

The line closed again with a snap. He didn't need confirmaton to know his voice had been heard. The primes may be dead, but one mech at least was always listening.

Slowly, Kickstart exited the corner and set off for the barracks.

He would not recharge that cycle.

Dead mechs didn't need to sleep.

Words were spoken of high above and far away, deep underground in that minibot's settlement. And both far high above, one mech sat alone in a dark room with dim lights glinting on a wide grin.

_It was all set._

"Good job, little mech," he whispered.

" _I'll be seeing you soon."_


	5. Chapter 5

The moment the quiet scrape sounded in the dark, Sideswipe's frame was jolted from recharge. his spark began to thrum in his chest, battle programming immediately at full function.

Still prone and with optics shuttered, he allowed a limp arm to hover over the side of his pallet to finger the hilt end of a blade.

Silence.

Somewhere far away, a fight sounded. Normal, for this time in the cycle.

his internal chronometer rolled, marking the kliks as they spun by, but no other audio interference made it to his.

he counted, silent and restless, careful not to allow his fans to kick in from the strain.

Then, there was a motion in the air.

Even with sensors so finely tuned from the decavorns, he had heard nothing as the intruder approached, even with the unstable ground littered with trash and debris; but he hadn't survived so long in the ruins without sharpening his instincts.

He cycled his optics.

Upon scanning the figure, however, he immediately relaxed.

_::Geez, Sunny, you scared the slag out of me.::_

The other mech snorted.

_::Serves you right for recharging alone.::_

He knelt at the end of the berth and pulled aside a square of oxidized paneling. Curious, Sideswipe leaned over to watch.

he saw his open his subspace and withdraw several grayed boxish objects, but no cubed fuel.

his tanks ground painfully, but he didn't say anything to his twin. Now that he'd opened the bond again, he knew exactly how painfully aware he was of the shortage.

_::Hey,::_ he rumbled, soothing.  _::We're not doing too bad. The preprocessed 'll last another vorn; We'll load up and then go out together.::_

_::I'm sick of this slag::_ spat Sunstreaker, jerking violently.  _::Fragging_ preprofuel _? What are we even_ doing _, Sideswipe?::_

Sideswipe didn't move. Instead, he allowed his twin's pain wash over his frame, feeling his shame and anger at the universe for putting them in this pit..

_::We're going to be okay,::_ Sideswipe whispered.

his brother choked on a laugh.

_::Yeah. Yeah, sure we will.::_

The mech slid in to lean across a ruined cabinet and appeared to dissolve into deep thought.

Sideswipe didn't move. he cycled, hating the way Sunny's plating began to tremble, sad that there wasn't anything he could do.

Through a crack in the ceiling, a stray shimmer of starlight illuminated the barest edge of the mech's plating. For a moment, it revealed a slip of worn yellow, shimmering even through a blanket of dents, scratches, and welds.

Sideswipe shifted uncomfortably in position.

White optics glinted, acknowledging the motion, but the mech said nothing.

Sideswipe sighed.

_::C'mere, Sunny.::_

Slowly, the mech retracted his visor and began to stand.

A moment later, a warm pressure joined Sideswipe. he reached up and stroked smooth finials in response.

_::We're going to be fine,::_ he insisted again.  _::We're going to finish this shift, then we'll get the frag off of 'con turf, and_ then  _we'll kick Petrol's skid plates for making us cover his shift."_

A pause. Then,  _"We're not all alone anymore."_

Static buzzing swelled behind his twin's chest.

_::No,::_ he felt him whirr,  _::No, we're not.::_

_::And even if we were, we've always got us.::_

Sideswipe felt a swat on his helm.

_::You sappy fragger.::_

He chuckled lowly.

_::G'nite, Sunny.::_

_::You'll stay online this time?::_ he checked.

_::Yeah.::_

_::You'd better.::_

Slowly, his vents stilled. Sideswipe watched his brother slip into recharge, then finally still completely for defrag.

_We'll be fine,_  he repeated to himself.

Somehow, it tasted like a lie.

* * *

Sunstreaker winced at his brother's pain.

Once again, the humid wave of heat blanketing Sideswipe swam out into his twin's awareness. The other mech frowned, concerned, but was unable to voice his worries; there were far to many hostile fields in the room for that.

_::You're too sick for this,::_ he slipped under the bond.  _::They shouldn't be making you come.::_

The red mech swayed lightly in his stance, looking to all the world like a simple 'con communications mech fighting off recharge. Inwardly, however, Sunstreaker could feel a miserable foggy heat clouding inside the other's chassis.

_::Yeah,::_ Sides' admitted.  _::But it's not like we have any other options.::_

The phrase, ' _Decepticon bastards'_  was heavily implied.

The yellow twin released a sardonic huff.

_::We could gut high commander,::_ he offered flatly.  _::I'd like to take a look under that shiny protoform.::_

That elicited a pained snort from Sunstreaker's side. It was a tired sound, like a laugh that didn't quite have the energy to drag itself up to be heard.

Still, he'd take what he could get. The attempt wasn't made nearly often enough the these days.

_::Save a piece for me, fragger.::_

The younger mech was just about to put out a teasing sound when a harsh, grating hiss cut him short.

"Oi! Lock down on the mindspeak, bi-scrap!"

The two mechs snarled in tandem, displeased at the interruption.

_::Speak of the spawn,::_ Sideswipe griped.

Ignorant to or perhaps regardless of the continued bond-speak, Commander Firewall restarted what had been the opening of their mission briefing.

Around them, a crowd of over sixty trained groundmecha stood attentive and alert for their orders, oddly complacent contrary to their rowdy Deception reputation. Stereotype aside, the Deceptions were still what could loosely be defined as soldiers. Loosely, mind.  _But hey._

Even ragtag thugs had to know when to listen.

Those who couldn't didn't make it far.

Once again, Firewall's scratchy voice broke through Sunstreaker's thoughts with his militarian spiel.

"Alright mecha, listen up!"

As if they weren't already standing at attention.

Sideswipe snickered, having overheard his brother's flippant thought.  _The immature scraplet._

"You all know what we're here for!" Firewall proceeded. "Get in, get out. Short and sweet like your last frag. Stick with your unit, don't frag up the comm lines."

_::Eloquent as ever,::_ Sideswipe noted.

Sunstreaker shushed him, knowing that their afthead commander was giving out important information. Primus, he hoped Sides'wasn't in Hobnob's unit.

He tuned his audials in anticipation.

"Team Turbo, you will be getting the princess. Team Rotor,  _you're_ stuck with twinkle toes over here."

Sunstreaker's plates bristled. Princess, that was him. It looked as if 'Sides was stuck with the Hobnob- the horny slagger- for another mission. Responsive to the revelation, he could feel his brother's plating crawl.

_::He smells,::_ the red twin growled.  _::And he's huge.::_

_::We'll kill him later,::_ Sunstreaker placated. Truth be told, he wanted the mech dead twice as much as his sibling did, but they needed to be alert for the excursion ahead of them.  _Unfortunately._

Unbidden memory clips rose of bulky green servos that itched dangerously close to cherry hips, and a chrome smirk with a few too many scratched denta to look sane.

He shivered, and pushed the unpleasant images into a dark corner for the time being. Someday he'd twist those digits off one phalange at a time _\- then_ they'd see how eager he was to reach for other mech's afts.

" _Now_ ," the unit Leander's vocals rose to a shout, "If you  _don't_  know what group you're in, don't bother finding out. Scrap-ended little pit stains like you will  _not_  be coming home. You will not be  _missed_ , you will not be  _rescued_. If you are a liability, you will be left  _behind_. Speaking of,"

A greying, welded-up arm swung suddenly around to point in the brother's direction.

"You see  _either_  of these primus-damned pit-birthed freaks of the Vector disobeying a direct order, I want a fragging acid pellet between the other's eyes  _immediately_.  _Do I make myself clear_?"

A chorus of " _Yes, unit commander_ "'s rang out, but molten-scrap optics remained locked onto the pair in a warning gaze. They all knew what it meant. " _Stay in your place"._

_Or shut down with time to regret it._

There was no need to tell them twice. They had no great love for their enemy.

Sunstreaker eyed his brother carefully. He was still upright, which was impressive at the rate his frame was heating, but he canted at an angle, and the way those fans were starting to whine worried him.

He took a deep intake.

_::I want you to stay out of the fight.::_

The lack of argument only doubled his concerns.

The crowd was dispersing around them, filing into the assigned groups. Soon, he was pulled away by one of his handlers.

_::Sideswipe. Stay out of the battle.::_  he called. He quickly lost sight of the red helm, but he sensed he was still close, just to his left, in a small cluster boarding a separate armored shuttle.

Finally, a reply was received, faint and staticky.

_::Kick some autobot aft for me, 'kay sunny?::_

He sighed.

_::Sure thing, fragger.::_

What he heard next was close to a laugh; a real, primus-blessed laugh, of all things; and as he himself was shoved towards his own boarding ramp he wished desperately for just another moment of it.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Jazz felt fear.

He put on a good show, but he was not the invincible warrior he played in front of his Mecha.

He was  _scared._ Scared of the future. Scared of his duty.  _For_ his duty. So, so many lives depended on him. He was a commander. A leader. 'Bots looked up to him for strength, guidance, reassurance that somehow,  _somehow_ , they were all going to be okay. So it was easy to push that fear away, to hold it deep, deep down inside, to pretend he had it all under control.

Because he  _did_  have it all under control. Here, where he was. Trapped and immobilized somewhere deep inside a sea of enemies-

He  _wanted_ to be there.

But somehow, frozen and defenseless with his weapons offline, he was having a hard time holding onto that belief, and that frightened him. He could feel the terror seeping in, leaking through the little chinks in his mental armor. It  _itched._

_Frozen. Trapped. Defenseless._

The words echoed painfully in his helm and he twisted, jerking on his restraints.

He had been there too long. Memories were resurfacing, biting at his heels, and he wasn't running fast enough anymore.

He was overcome entirely by the horrible need to  _move._

But that didn't appear to be an option.

For awhile, the minibot went still, relaxed, forced himself to go blank.

A cold, damp-looking ceiling stared back, unsympathetic to the traitorous spark speeding up beneath it.

Click-click- _clickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclick._

The sound came from inside his head. It wasn't real, it couldn't be real, his audio receptors-

_Clickclickclickclick-ik-ik-ik-ik-ik-ik-ik-ik-ik-ik-ik-ik-ik-_

He clamped gown on his glossa to keep himself from whining.

He wanted the other mech back- the red one, the one who'd asked him all those questions-

" _How many detonators did you plant?"_ , he'd asked.  _Only_  asked.

It hadn't been a true interrogation; not really. He'd-

_No._  He snapped back at his mind, forcing the thought to end.

" _Three,"_ he'd offered freely.  _"S'posed to be five, but we ran outta' time."_

" _What were they intended for?"_

An escape. They had been meant to go off in time for them to make their exit.

" _Diversion."_

Only it hadn't worked out that way. A miscalculation, plain and simple. An early guard switch- such a small detail. So important.

A few more predictable inquiries, and he'd been left to himself once again.

" _Someone will be with you in a few joors. Get comfortable."_

It had  _been_  a few joors. It must have been. He was positive- Mostly.

Not at all, actually. He'd lost faith in his chronometer awhile ago.

He'd tried Circuit Boosters before. A long while ago, now. It had been incredible. Coming down had been like… like this, actually. Sick and fidgety and  _burning_.

Jazz snarled, kicking out against his bindings, and he  _yanked,_ nearly popping his arms from their sockets, but nothing budged.

Again, he held in a keen, despairing and enraged at his own frustrations.

The sudden sensation of hands on his chassis was unexpected and startling, and he jerked his helm to the side even as he flinched away.

The only thought in his mind was that he was back  _there,_  and  _Primus_  he couldn't- couldn't- and he wanted to  _get the frag away_ \- and out of nowhere, a sharp pain zapped down his arm, and he couldn't even move his  _frame_  anymore.

A medic's code scrolled across his HUD just as his chains released. He dropped instantly, expecting to meet the floor, but his descent was interrupted by a sturdy pair of white arms.

A humming buzz bounced off his sensor horns- The mech had spoken to him.

_Get a fragging memo out,_ he wanted to growl, but his mouth refused to move.

It was probably just as well, as a klick later he was hefted up into a red chestplate. From there, he was carried a short ways, then plopped down on a reasonably soft surface.

Maybe under other circumstances he'd have resisted the humiliating treatment, but at the moment he was truly just relieved he had something to focus on.

That wasn't to say he didn't resent it, though- the relief only served to soften the blow.

Internally, he pushed and struggled against the override with all he had, but all he achieved was a mounting helmache.

Over the urgency in his spark, he could vaguely feel the way his helm panels were pried away and snapped back on.

"Oh, stop that," A low voice grumbled as his hearing returned. "If you fry out your primary cortex, I'm not fixing it for you."

Then he was flipped over onto his side, and the remaining segment his right leg was lifted parallel to the ground.

Warm, steady hands probed the amputated area, poking around for Primus-knew-what before withdrawing, only to return with a small bundle of wires.

Jazz looked on warily as the Medic worked. He could see the mech's head from this angle- it was an older mech, white and red, and he had small nicks and scuffs peppering his arms and scattered across his face.

Blue optics flicked over to meet his own, almost as if sensing his thoughts, and a frown appeared on his face.

"There are two this could go," the mech stated simply. A hand was returned to his thigh. Jazz tracked the movement carefully, mentally bracing for anything.

"One, I could go in and strip all the components leading to this limb and rebuild the whole system from scratch. It would take time, and it would be painful, and I'd have to go in through  _here_ ," a finger traced from his abdomen to his throat, "To  _here_."

The finger stopped just outside his line of vision and tapped gently over his lower cerebral cortex.

"Believe it or not, I'd much prefer that."

Jazz's spark jerked in it's casing.  _No,_ he wanted to say.  _Ah'm good with not doin' that,_  but the code stopped him. He swore furiously.

Outside his helm, the medic continued uninterrupted.

"Two, I could splice your remaining components onto a recycled piece and let you hope to primus it's a compatible model."

His frown deepened. Jazz didn't like that look; he didn't want that look anywhere near his delicate parts.

A war raged internally between spark felt thankfulness that he was to be repaired at all, and a deep, strut-crippling anxiety that threatened to put him into a lockdown.

The Medic seemed to sense this, too; his expression appeared to soften fractionally in response.

"Because our resources are limited, I'm going to go ahead and start with the splice. Fortunately, there seems to be an abundance of scavengeable frames laying about."

It felt like it should have sounded accusing, but it was said in such a matter-of-fact tone that Jazz could hardly work himself up to take it personally. It was a war, after all, and he had mecha to provide for. It wasn't like he'd been trying to kill anyone. Had the mission gone according to plan, he'd be back at base right now, in and out clean. No fatalities on either side.

A spike of pain jolted the minibot out of his thoughts- A dangling fragment of subdermus had been severed. He looked up to the white mech again.

Perhaps he saw the fear in his optics then, because another mystery something stabbed into his arm and his vision went hazy.

"Trust me kid, you aren't going to want to be awake for this."

_[Medical Override initiated: Entering Statsis]_

Oh Primus, he was burning all over again.

* * *

 

Stepping in line beside the Autobot CMO, Prowl kept his optics blank and level with the poath in front of him. He could literally feel the stress and tension radiating off the older mech. His door wings shifted to hint at sympathy, but the gesture went unacknowledged.

It was Ratchet that spoke first.

"He's not hostile."

The tactician quirked a ridge, skeptical.

"You had him inhibited for the entire frame of your encounter."

"And I'm telling you he's not hostile," the medic snarled in return.

Prowl simply flicked his wings, affronted by the tone.

"Please explain."

They stopped in front of the medbay. Prowl complied with the older mech's gesture to step to the side, out of the way of the doors; he didn't want to obstruct the pathway for anyone needing it.

"He was frantic when I went in," the medic confided. "Didn't even notice me come in. As soon as I told him to stop fighting my overrides, he did. Same as any other rational 'bot."

"You think he can be reasoned with?" Prowl inquired. That would be something. He had gleaned little from his own ill-fated meeting with the prisoner, besides a few small personality aspects. Mirage had informed him that the mech was cooperative in his interrogation as well. On top of all that, he was apparently in a leadership position over a considerable number of unaligned fighters…

The Tactician's battle computer whirred contentedly with the potential directions this could go.

"Did you learn any other pertinent information during his repairs?"

The medic grimaced. It was obvious he wasn't pleased to be used as an informant.

"No. Nothing relevant to your purposes," he conceded. "However, there are several systems checks I'd like to perform. There are a few anomalies I've come across that are concerning, but not life threatening. Which are confidential, of course," he warned, shooting a nasty look at the Praxian.

Prowl met the stare stoically, betraying no outward emotion.

"We shall see."


	7. Chapter 7

Jazz's optics cycled open. Almost instantly, readings flooded his processor- new calculations for weight distribution, predicted balance, and a shifted center of gravity- a single, flashing update informed him that both legs and receptors were now fully functional.

It took a moment to recall how and when exactly that the repairs had taken place, but once he did the minibot swore. Quickly, he dismissed the auto-scans and focused on clearing his blurred vision.

Unsurprisingly, audio input was filtered first.

Voices. Far enough away not to be an immediate threat, but still within scanning distance.

Too close, in his opinion, but there wasn't much to be done about it.

Swinging his legs over the side of his cot, almost surprised at the free range of motion, Jazz inspected his new surroundings. It was a new cell- smaller than before, but cleaner. Grey, of course. A low berth jutted out from one wall beneath him, and a small cube of low-grade rested on the closer corner of a small table.

He considered the fluid for a moment before mentally shrugging it away. He was still bleary from his forced recharge, but past the mental static he could feel a measure of his old strength returned to his frame.

The mech flexed his palms, contemplative.

Frag, he realized, haven't felt this good since…

…Pit, since Iacon fell.

An involuntary shudder rattled his struts. It hadn't been so long, but it felt like aeons since Megatron had united the lesser states against the domed city.

Images of smoke and flame flickered behind his visor; He hadn't been in the city itself at the time of the attack, but he'd been near enough to hear the screams of the ones who hadn't been so lucky.

Sparklings and mecha-

He shook them all away, refusing to legitimize his own barely-reined paranoia. The strike hadn't come as a complete surprise, after all- tensions had been high between the wealthy district and the lower areas for a long time before Megatron came along. The civil war between Tarn and Vos had only been the tipping point. From there, nobody could have predicted it could've gone so bad so fast.

No, he thought, it hadn't been that long at all.

Finally he made the decision to reach for the pale blue cube at his side.

It glinted in the dim light as he pulled it back- on closer observation, he found that the it had a faint pearly sheen that floated close to the bottom. Lifting it upwards and sharpening his secondary optical relays, he found that the slick was in fact an incredibly fine crystallized compound that's been dissolved into a heavy solution.

"It's just a nutritional additive."

The unexpected voice cut into his defensive protocols like a knife.

Nearly dropping the cube, the minibot's helm whipped around to see that a mech had just arrived outside his cell. Coal-cherry plating seemed to jump across the space dividing them; It was the Medic who'd patched his leg, scowling and flipping harshy through a small stack of documents.

How long he had been there, Jazz didn't know- normally, he would've heard their approach. He frowned.

The medic caught his look.

"I thought it best to leave your audio enhancers offline for the time being," he supplied, gesturing with a data pad. "Whoever installed those mods did a decent job."

Jazz took the observation as an invitation.

"Friend ah mine. Took a long drive off a short dock."

"Hm."

He watched the red and white 'bot glance down and scan something on the pad, then glyph something quickly on a new page.

"The same mech who hacked your Optic job?"

It took a disproportionate amount of effort to resist reaching up to touch his visor. "Nah, different mecha."

"Hm." Another scribble. "You do realize that a considerable percentage of your systems are being drained to support those additions?"

Well yeah, he did.

"It ain't nothing' Ah can't handle."

"It "Ain't nothing" that wouldn't e better off fixing now, before it becomes a problem, either," the mech growled, somehow managing to fold his arms around his jumbled armload. "How's the leg integrating?"

Somehow, Jazz was getting the distinct impression that the 'bot was actually interested in his answer. Of course, he knew it was basic routine to perform a follow-up on any significant repairs to a mecha's systems, but many ex-mechanics and field medics he's encountered had treated such processes as redundancies, extra work-

This one was eyeing his own work as he waited for an answer, a look in his optic appearing as though was tempted to open it up and check for himself.

Jazz rotated his joints obligingly before lifting himself off the berth, applying a light amount of pressure to the limb to test the welds. He was surprised to find that they held up rather well, even on the tricky maintainence hatches where the seams drooped tight around his smaller joints.

It felt good. Different, but not painful.

"Yeh left mah wheels the same," he noticed at last.

The Autobot nodded. "Yes, I did. The tire is the same, but the well is new- I was hoping to splice as much of your original parts with the new components as possible, but most of them were lost in the smelting ovens."

That stirred something in his memory banks.

"Ah was dumped in the scrap pile," he realized.

The medic nodded, confirming his partial guess. "You fell off the belt three metres from the primary unit. Twenty kliks, and you'd be a patch weld on our Third's aft right now. You can thank the monitor crew later for doing a second sweep before tradeoff, or you'd have probably bled out on the floor."

Jazz was silent for a moment. "What's yer designation, mech?"

The answer was quick, confident.

"Ratchet."

The minibot grinned. "Jazz. Good tah meet'cha."

There were three mecha every mech had to be nice to, Jazz had learned. Just three.

The Commander, the Detailer, and the Medic.

The mech, Ratchet, smirked. "A pleasure, I'm sure."

Jazz laughed.

When Jazz had first started out in his particular line of work, He'd learned early that it was easier to survive if you were liked. Weakness was only useful if it got you ignored and underestimated, and strength and violence only stretched so far before they had to be proven. Charm was efficient. Mecha liked a mech who could crack a joke at the right time. An odd grin here, a quip there- At first, it had bothered him, going so roughly against his natural grain, but he'd grown accustomed to it, carried the new persona with him everywhere, a second layer of armor. Mecha didn't want to hurt him, and if they did he'd just give them a sad smile and say he forgave them and the guilt would rot sparks from the insides out.

He didn't like to think about it anymore. When he did, part of him wondered if he'd always been that way, smiles and a laugh over a bed of calculation, but his spark rejected the possibility.

He hadn't always been so cold. He could remember that. Clips and snatches of memory still remained to keep him grounded, keep him fighting against the little nagging voice that whispered evil when he went into recharge.

Ratchet, Jazz found, was not a bad mech. He noticed himself relaxing into casual conversation for a short time before the medic had left, called out to check on a patient, (No, not one of yours, he'd been informed, and that was the only time any tone close to accusing had come up).

"I'll be back in a few orns to sand down that weld seam," the medic had called on his way out. "Don't frag it up!"

Long, painful silence had followed.

Incarceration was, unfortunately, nothing new to Jazz. He'd sunk into the reality of his situation rather quickly. Still, he wasn't used to the total lack of stimuli. There weren't any inmates, no prisoners next block over, no guardsmechs pacing ten metres from his block.

Nothing.

Four joors later, he was going to rip his hem in two.

He was out of music, out of vid relays, he'd scanned over all his old image captures.

He growled. He was in storage. He was being ignored. Locked up until someone decided what they were doing with him, and his only choice was to wait it out.

He didn't like being ignored. It made him testy.

After awhile though, he'd simply resigned himself to laying back on the hard berth-mat, counting his vents quietly and desperately willing his systems to click into recharge while is processors whirred incessantly. He'd finished his energon before the medic had left, and something in the mix had left him jittery and more restless than usual.

Systems probably not used to being fueled again, he'd figured, and continued pacing his ventilations.

He was still flat on his back with one arm over his helm in another two joors, when his cell door opened with a click.

It was not who he had been expecting.


End file.
